


Bloody Weasleys

by mistresscarlett



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Humour, Short, Spawnfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-05 14:31:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/42733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistresscarlett/pseuds/mistresscarlett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If any of them had put any thought into the basic mathematics of the situation, they should have known it was bound to happen...</p><p>Note: This story was written before the release of 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bloody Weasleys

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written before the release of 'Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows', and is probably best considered as an AU to the canon Epilogue.

****

_Crash_! Clatter! Shards of glass tumbling twenty feet onto the concrete floor.

That’s the third Quaffle this month. Bloody Weasleys!

It has rapidly become untenable in the last five years or so. If any of them had put any thought into the basic mathematics of the situation, they should have known it was bound to happen. Six healthy wizards and one witch, all alive and hexing, thank Merlin, at the end of the war, and all settled and sorted nowadays. They'd used to joke; at least the little ones will always knew where to line up in alphabetical order on Sorting Day! But honestly, the place was becoming an absolute madhouse. After the two in sixth year had permanently charmed the sign at the gate to read ‘Hogwarts Academy of Witchcraft and _Weasleys_’ last April, the headmistress had given serious consideration to the idea of just throwing in the cloak and leaving it there.

It had started with elegant, strawberry blonde, French-speaking Weasleys in Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, and tall, taciturn, Romanian-speaking ones in Slytherin and Gryffindor. Nothing so terrible about that. Then, mysteriously reflecting a twelve-year time-lapse from the summer Fred, Percy and Ginny had all gotten married, the floodgates had more or less exploded, making the worst ravages of You-Know-Who look, he thinks grimly, like schoolkid pranks. Nowadays on any given day there will be Weasleys with locs and dark freckles on golden skin howling as they dive-bomb the first years' flying practice, Weasleys with black hair and innocent blue eyes blowing up the Potions lab, and Weasleys with milky freckled faces and copper curls conspiring with Peeves the Poltergeist to put itching powder in all the Ravenclaw pyjamas. Only last week, Madam Pince had had to throw three of the Weasley-Clearwaters out of the library for getting in a screaming argument about the proper punctuation of hyphenated surnames in post-third-wave feminist wizarding/witching society with _both_ of the Granger Weasleys. There were Weasleys of every stripe and persuasion constantly underfoot, laying teacher-traps in the staff common room, feeding Cockroach Clusters to the Gryffindors, and frightening the first-years by pretending to be Crumple-Horned Snorkacks in the corridors after midnight. There were Weasley pranksters and prefects, Chasers and Charms Club presidents, Gobstones players and heads of the Yule Ball Committee. The Gryffindor Quidditch team had officially been the Weasley Mafia for the past five years running. The poor old Headmistress hadn't really been the same since the time Potter and Weasley (the third-year Potter and Weasley, obviously, not the fifth-year ones) had hexed her glasses, swapped their ties and changed places for a week before either she or Professor Lovegood had managed to notice.

(A sequel to _that_ little story: Professor McGonagall had owled their parents about it, and the next thing anyone knew little Georgie Weasley of Gryffindor had a brand new Comet 450, and Hermione Potter of Ravenclaw had received an extra-large package of sweets in the post. The feather obviously not falling far from the Diricawl, and so forth.)

He personally had had to deal with the results of Miss Euphonia Weasley of the Fourth Year electing to attend the Yule Ball in the company of Mr. Maleficus Malfoy of the Fifth (two sets of angry parents and three and a half sets of even angrier grandparents on the doorstep the very next afternoon demanding tea and biscuits and more biscuits and a Bloody Good Explanation For All This). He had been present during the infamous Strawberry Jam Incident that had culminated in the head-shaving of every third-year Gryffindor and the sympathetic knitting of a lot of red-and-gold stripey beanies by the house elves. He had been put in charge of clearing up that year when a Muggle-born classmate had innocently loaned little Arthur Weasley-Clearwater her copy of _The Chronicles of Narnia_, and he now knew _exactly_ how long it took to lift three inches of magical snow from a seventeenth-century carpet and get seventy-five people’s possessions back into their wardrobes again.

He should complain. He should hand out more detentions, he should make a fuss. He was being pathetic, he knew. He should speak to their parents; well, some of their parents; well, maybe he should just stop mucking about and owl their bloody grandmother. Or maybe he should really just do as the Headmistress kept threatening these days; get on his broomstick and fly away somewhere nice and sunny and quiet, and never be heard from again. One thing was for sure, he should _definitely_ never let any of them anywhere near his greenhouse (the poor mandrakes still hadn't recovered, and as for the Flutterby bush, oh he couldn’t even bear to think about it) ever again. He should stop paying any attention whatsoever when any of them look at him with their hearts of PURE WEASLEY EVIL concealed behind their big shiny blue and brown and green and hazel eyes, and he should definitely stop listening when they started in with their pleading little voices…

“Um… Professor? You alright, sir?”

“Professor Longbottom?”

“We’re really sorry about the ceiling, Professor!”

“You can take away points from Hufflepuff, if we squashed any plants, sir.”

“No, Gryffindor! I’m the one who missed the save!”

“But since we didn’t mean it, sir... Could you maybe chuck us our ball back?”.

Brushing shards of glass from his earmuffs and his overalls, Neville uses his wand to scoop up the Quaffle from the floor of Greenhouse Three, and sends it spiralling upwards in a lazy loop through the autumn sunshine spilling through the smashed pane above his head. Whoops of delight and a chorus of what sounds suspiciously like “CHEERS, UNCLE NEV!” vanish on the wind as a series of red and yellow streaks zip back across the fields towards the Quidditch pitch.

He’ll have to ask L- er, _Professor Lovegood_ to patch up the hole in the ceiling after dinner.

Bloody, bloody Weasleys.


End file.
